


Word of Mouth

by Fallwater023



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Child Soldiers, Dark, Gen, Hunter Training, Hunters & Hunting, Parent-Child Relationship, Slightly Philosophical, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallwater023/pseuds/Fallwater023
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How hunting families work when you're not caught up in prophecies and apocalypses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Word of Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Quick worldbuilding piece, because hunter culture fascinates the shit outta me. 
> 
> WARNING: non-graphic discussion of child-soldier training (noncon/dubcon on the kid's part) in the SPN hunter tradition.

This is how things work in the hunting business. 

It’s really quite simple, and it makes a hell of a lot of sense if you grow up in it. Sure, to outsiders it can look like a cult, but what close-knit community doesn’t? You have the style of dress, the lingo, the habits, the...shared interests, people say over the ‘net or in a diner on the ass end of nowhere with a wink and a nudge. 

Everyone in hunting is the child of an orphan, really, and it’s a shitty way to live but some people (outsiders) think it’s romantic. The only way to be in on the secret, the world’s greatest and most terrible joke, is to have a mother, a brother, a great-great-great grandfather who was killed by something nobody ever caught until you read the storybooks and crossed the edge of the map. Here there be monsters. So what you have in a hunter’s gathering is pretty much a loose alliance of grieving children with bullets, and that’s never a good thing. And however close or far the blood in your family’s branches is, an orphan is still an orphan. 

And family is still family. The old clans - everyone in the biz knows the big names - they keep themselves to themselves unless you run into them on a hunt. And if you do, you might be screwed or you might be bait, or they might take a shine to you. And then you're twice screwed, because big names call big mojo: demons, prophecies, conspiracies, gods and angels. Seriously bad shit. 

But the drifters, the couples and loners who douse poltergeists and shoot trolls, they have a loose web of acquaintance and half-friendships forged in combat. It’s easy for that friendship to turn into lost hours in a one-night cheap hotel, and a moment of quietness in the world that screams pure and without begging for everything to end. Sometimes one or the other of you ends, and that’s okay, because something always goes on. Always more soldiers for the silent battlefield. 

So you have a kid, decide to keep the poor thing and raise ‘em on the road, in and out of motels. The basics - salt and silver and sacred words - you teach. Then around twelve, they get to make their first kill. Something easy. A black dog, maybe, or a restless ghost. Keep ‘em close, but keep ‘em busy - hunting, learning, fighting, training. Around about sixteen is when most will try to make a break for it. Get out of the life, or at least away from the family they’ve spent their whole life with. 

That’s when you go to the Roadhouse. Bring the kid along. Talk to people who have an empty shotgun seat and a good reputation. Send the kid off one evening with a duffel of weapons and a hunter’s blessing and no hope of a normal life ever. 

Maybe a few years down the line you’ll see a grown man or woman with scars and tired eyes that kind of look like your own, and you can’t allow yourself to wonder because everyone knows that hunter’s teacher died a year ago, and you can’t think why the hell wouldn’t they call? because that way - that way lies madness.


End file.
